>>> ENTER art exhibition here (or click image)
BOOKS
-
Tag Archives: monuments & ruins
FUCKIN’ TOURISTS – I wish Bin Laden was here to lessen the pollution …!
Thought I’d start on a different note – cos not everyday am I feeling in love with the world and I don’t want to mislead you about the nature of 2lst century travel, nor of the moods of this traveller.
Often these past weeks I’ve really had to try hard to stay enthusiastic about being on the road. The nausea started in northern Bolivia and has heightened dramatically here in Cusco, Peru.
THE PROBLEM, my problem, is the masses of stupid fucks here.
I can understand the attraction of Cusco but the people it attracts are generally dull … those middle-aged package sheep who go to pretentious plaza cafes accompanied by their aloof attitudes. Or the classic American campus geek on a summer school outing, shrieking loudly and bitching about her friends.
At a series of Inca ruins yesterday I encountered some examples. There were these harmless chicks who just sat upon a mountain vista of a almighty ruin and reading novels (nothing related to S America; one was by Nick Hornby and I wondered why bother being there? After all you tend to read to be transported elsewhere).
Another harmless, gormless couple had stripped off to undies, and were sunbathing (and not a swimming pool or beach in sight).
One group of 4 English toffs passed me without acknowledging me or my greeting but later when they were fumbling about for 10 minutes trying to find the other way down from the Inca rock, a little panicked, and ‘not wanting to damage their cameras’, I pointed out the route and they suddenly turned ever so pleasant.
But what really set me on-fire was when some old American guy started screaming and waving me away with his hands: Outa my photo! I didn’t even see him – so crowded was the site: each person sharing a turn to interrupt another’s shots. Anyway, I gave him a loud - “Fuck off! You’re not the only one here, ya cunt!”
That same cunt was at the site less than 10 minutes as he was swished away within his stupid-arse tour group. And he’d have his photos and boast over some sycophantic dinner party that he’s been there, that he’s experienced Peru.
So call me a travel snob, a complete wanker or a ignorant leper, but it seems that tourism is strangling special places, rapidly depleting the world of any real travel adventure and intelligence – so get there now friends, within the next 10 years to your dream destinations. Or don’t bother (unless a war breaks out: then perfect travel, those early post-war years).
Me: I’ve suddenly been enlightened: I’ve finally realised that I’m just another dickhead like the rest of them (and even stupider, for being here during the height of the peak season). It’s all so clear now: I need a beer …
> photos of Cusco, inca sites, Peru
I set out with a local guide and a mule and a mule-lad to trek to Vilcabamba, the last and lost Inca city, located in a distant, hidden, rainforested valley, and a full three days of walking remote trails away …
>>> THIS POST HAS MOVED: please click here for comments and advice
Located in the central Ethiopian Highlands they remain one the least recognised man-made wonders of the world, yet once the Medieval rock-hewn churches of Lalibela were known as “The Jerusalem of Ethiopia.”
Within the compound of the church of Saint George – Lalibela
TWENTY-EIGHT hours on a slow train across the Gobi Desert provides me with plenty of time to reflect on the rigours of travelling the Silk Road.
Where the Great Wall ends at Jiayuguan fortress in western China
Travel article 1997 / travels 1989
An elderly Arab calls out as I wander past a cafe, where men smoke sheshas as others sip shay -tea. I don’t know this man, nor he me, but all the same I’m invited to join his street-front table, to drink tea.
His hospitality is typical of my time in Syria.
Forget the television news: the negative represents only 10% of the reality. For sure, the Syrian Government has sponsored terrorism and waged war against Israel, but things are changing and as a tourist you have nothing to fear. And while the Syrian military have dominated government since independence from the French in 1946, the current President, Hafez al-Assad, who seized control in 1970, has in recent years brought stability to this country of 17 million. Syria’s population is 86% Muslim, with a literacy rate around 70%.
Syria is a small country about half the size of New Zealand, bordered by Turkey in the north, Jordan and Iraq in the south and east, with Israel and Lebanon on the south and west. Within Syria lie four geographical regions: a narrow Mediterranean coast, mountains and farmland in the west, but most of the country is flat, stony desert. Forming part of Arabia’s fertile crescent, Syria across the centuries has seen the invading presence of many great civilisations.
Sunset over the desert ruins of Palmyra
The main reason for a visit to Syria is it’s wealth of historical sites. You can spend weeks seeking Hittite sites or Crusader castles along the coast, or exploring the ruins of Mesopotamian, Byzantine or Roman towns in the desert; discover the Ottoman and Arab Muslim heritage amid the mosaic of history in Damascus, whether it be one of the gems of Islamic architecture, the 8th century Omayyad Mosque, or the Mausoleum of Saladin, the Muslim conquer who defeated the Crusaders and retook Jerusalem. In the fertile Orontes Valley you find the giant, medieval waterwheels of Hama and in Syria’s second city, Allepo, you wander back in time amid one of the great markets of the Middle East.
There is so much to see and experience in Syria; it is said there are 20,000 archaeological sites in the country.
Syria’s main attraction – and one of the world’s greatest historic sights – is Palmyra: once an important city on the old Silk Road between China and the West. The ruins of Palmyra are 1800-years-old, and cover some 50 hectares: a great colonnade forms the main artery of the city, passing thru ornate monumental arches, an amphitheatre and small temples to the massive Temple of Bel.
Beside the walls of Bel I watch the sunset on distant desert ridges, last rays showering an orange glint across the avenue of carved stone columns – Roman pillars stretching forever, so it seems; on the other side of the ruins stands a sprawling oasis of date palms, hence the Roman name: City of Palms. The ruins are now deserted, except for an extended Arab family, scarfed wives trailing their husbands and kids, a vendor attempting to sell them a branch of fresh dates.
Ampitheatre of Palmyra, looking to the columns of the main avenue
Palmyra is mentioned in tablets as far back as the 19th century BC, but the ruins originate from the 2nd century AD,when Palmyra’s importance grew as a buffer state between the Roman and Persian empires. From the status as a Roman colony Palmyra gradually evolved into a kingdom, when the ruler, Odenathus, a brilliant military commander, earned the respect and trust of Rome. Palmyra prospered, until Odenathus was assassinated in 267 AD. His second wife, Zenobia, claimed the throne. This action offended Rome (who thought Zenobia was involved in her husband’s death).
Claiming to be descended from Cleopatra, Zenobia was a woman of great beauty, ability and ambition, and it was she who declared Palmyra an independent empire, her army seizing Egypt from Rome’s control. But the desert warrior queen was stopped by the mighty Roman Empire, the city besieged and Zenobia taken alive. Two versions exist of her end: one, that she lived her final days in villa in Rome; another that she fast to death rather than remain captive. Today at Palmyra illegal dealers peddle ancient coins embossed with the face of Zenobia. The legendary Zenobia remains a folk hero.
Preceding her fall, Zenobia founded the town of Halabiyyeh, north of Palmyra and alongside the Euphrates River. The long stone walls that remain today were fortifications constructed by the Roman Emperor Justinian; the Persians later seized the garrison town in 610 A.D.
Intent on visiting these ruins, I set out from the desert city of Deir-ez-Zur in a local bus, to later be dropped off in the middle of nowhere: at a lonely side road winding towards some distant ridges, in an expanse of flat gravel and sand.
After an hour of desert heat and stark silence comes the chug and rattle of a farm tractor and trailer. The driver stops, and offers me a lift. The mighty Euphrates River soon appears: swift, wide blue snaking between barren, honey-coloured ridges, the nearby banks bordered by green fields and the odd mud-brick house.
Locals encountered on the Euphrates riverbank, on route to the ruins of Halabiyyeh
Stopped at his home, Ahmed invites me to drink tea. From two flat-roofed adobe houses – plastered-mud walls the colour of the surrounding desert, cracks and gaps exposing stacked stone, out run kids shouting, excited to see Dad and this stranger.
An elderly man greets me “Ahlan / Welcome”, as he unrolls carpets across the hard-earthen floor. Apart from patterned carpets and cushions, the room is bare, just white-washed walls and two glassless windows beneath a rafter ceiling. The old man keeps smiling; the children talking excitedly – until Dad tells them to sit and hush.
There are two boys and two young girls, the latter wearing tatty floral dresses, their hair brown and tangled (They are too young for chador: black cloth and veils worn when a female reaches puberty). Ahmed’s wife and eldest daughter both wear chador – without veils – when they enter the room, one carrying a tray of thumb-sized glasses, the other a teapot. We sip sugary black tea. The kids giggle, whispering to one another. Ahmed says, “They not seen foreigner before.” (He speaks a mix of basic English and French; many locals speak French: a legacy of the French Mandate over Syria, following the dismantling of the Ottoman Turk Empire after the First World War).
This Bedouin family finds my appearance and clothing strange; boots, Ahmed says, are only for the military. And earrings, well, only women wear these in Syria. But what throws them most is the realisation that it takes at least a day-and-night by Jumbo jet to reach Syria. My hand-drawn map of the world is poor, however they are aware of Australia, and so I settle on being an Aussie. The kids, when Ahmed has explained to them, begin chanting: “Australyee! Australyee!”
Ahmed’s wife and daughter reappear with laden trays, and everyone washes their hands in a bowl of warm water. We then tuck into a communal meal with our right hands (for Muslim custom dictates that the left hand is for the toilet).
Young and old, male and female, Muslim and Christian, together we eat meat stew and leaven-bread. I share my bag of boiled sweets, which are happily munched by all. Following dinner and sweets and more cups of tea, Ahmed asks me to stay the night. This offer is a blessing, because it’s getting late and I’ve still not reached the ruins and am without sleeping bag and warm clothes, intending this only as a day-trip. They provide me a mattress and blankets.
And in the morning a meal of scrambled egg, goat’s cheese and flat bread with sweet tea. I get to the ruins by mid-morning and explore the empty, walled city and climb the crumbling citadel for a great view of desert and deep-blue river.
Walls of Halabiyehh ruins
Leaving Halabiyyeh I get lucky, and hitch a ride back to the desert highway where I wave down a bus but its crammed; a seated man insists I take his seat. Yet again, kindness shown to the stranger, such was my experience of Syria.
